Interpreting Genesis 1 continues
to be a controversial issueóand for all sorts of people. This is hardly
surprising for at least two reasons. On one level, how one reads Genesis 1 has
in some circles become a litmus test of Christian orthodoxy, whether
conservative or liberal. Hold the "wrong" view and one is either a
dupe of secular critical theory or a troglodyte literalist. This hardly bodes
well for the unity of that new humanity that God is forming in Christ. On
another level, the importance of stories of origins cannot be overestimated.
They define us. They tell us who we are and what it means to be human. In terms
of our topic, whatever the technical merits or otherwise of Darwinís theory of
biological evolution, its widespread acceptance has gone a long way toward
discrediting a "literal" reading of Genesis 1 and with it the standing
of Christianity and its vision of humanity. Consequently, and rather more
provocatively, it is hard to imagine the modern North-American trade in aborted
baby body parts or the horrors of Holocaust and Gulag were it not for the stark
materialism of, and the eugenic theory inherent in, the more imperialist and
triumphalist forms of twentieth-century Darwinism. However, it must be
recognized that it will be difficult if not impossible to reverse these trends
if resistance is not undergirded by a more convincing and coherent alternative
view of human origins than Darwinism can offer. And this in terms of both the
objectiveówhat happenedóand the subjectiveówhat it means. For Christians
such an alternative must include Genesis 1 and that necessarily involves the
question of how it is to be read. If in the end we find that Genesis 1 ought to
be read "literally", then so be it. On the other hand, the more work I
do on the world out of which this account emerged, the more I am led to question
whether the "literalist" reading is in fact truly faithful to the
text.

In my experience most Christians and readers of the Bible come to Genesis 1
with many of their beliefs already in hand. This is not to be dismissed as a
typical example of blind private faith versus well-attested public fact, as
Bertrand Russell so gloriously misconstrued things. It is an inescapable part of
being human. Michael Polanyi reminded us that taking a great many things on
trust is the essential first step to knowledge, even and perhaps especially in
that highest and holiest of all modern callings, science. All of us, Christians
and scientists together, simply have to take a great deal on trust, to assume
much, if we are ever to get started on the path to knowing. The saying is sure,
without assuming something no one shall know anything. But having said that, it
is important regularly to reassess those assumptions in the light of our growing
knowledge and in doing so to recognize that truth in this kind of historical and
literary endeavour is much more a matter of coherence than of certainty. Bernard
Lonergan rightly understood that the first step in knowing was to pay attention
to all of the data, then to apply our intelligence in seeking to understand, and
finally to use our reason to judge between hypotheses. This is the advice,
which, to the best of my ability, I intend to take here.

Reading Ancient Documents

Our problems begin in that most of us read Genesis 1 in our mother tongue,
and that tongue is not Hebrew. This is both helpful and potentially misleading.
The help is obvious, the potential harm less so. The fact remains that this
story was originally written in another language, a very long time ago, and in a
culture whose world, while not totally other than ours, was both different and
very differently understood. In one sense they no doubt looked out on the same
physically constituted landscape, but as Lonergan also reminded us: seeing is
not the same as knowing. The assumptions that they once brought and we now bring
to the textóGadamerís horizonsóare very likely to be rather different.
That this is so can hardly be contested as the divergent interpretations of
Genesis 1 even in our own day bear witness. The same ink spots generate some
very different understandings. The upshot is that if we are not attentive, the
fact that Genesis 1 is in our own language can lull us into assuming that
familiar words and phrases are intended to invoke the understandings and
assumptions of our twenty-first-century world. This is, of course, just as much
a mistake as reading Shakespeare as though he was writing in
twenty-first-century Vancouver or Hong Kong. Not surprisingly, the less we
"modernize" Shakespeare the more foreign he appears and the less
likely the error of anachronism. It is useful, then, to remember that Genesis 1
was originally written in Hebrew, and even better to read it in the same.

The question arises: but even so, whose understanding is correct? Do not our
individual perspectives mire us in a hopeless relativism? Not at all. These ink
spots are not merely signs. They are particular signs in a particular order.
They are the readersí "marching orders," designed by the writer to
communicate what he intended to the competent reader. The terms of those
marching orders are indicated by the genre, the contract made between writer and
reader as to how the signs are to be read. This is really nothing new since we
all get along very well every day on this basis, almost unconsciously using
genre to distinguish between the truth claims of Peanuts (no, there is not in
fact a canine whose philosophizing rivals Plato) and The Vancouver Sun
(but how we wish that some of our politicians were more like Snoopy!).

The trick is to do as much work as we can in determining the genre and in
seeking to understand the worldview out of which Genesis 1 emerged. This will
involve not only looking at Genesis 1 in detail but also paying attention to
similar stories elsewhere in order to get a feel for the kinds of issues with
which the ancients were concerned and the language they used in dealing with
them. The last sentence might generate some anxiety. There is no need. When a
good preacher or exegete does word studies he or she is not confined only to the
biblical texts as though they were written in an hermetically sealed
environment. They also consider how the language functioned in the broader
cultural context of the day. The same surely applies here. But bear in mind the
distinction: we are not talking about borrowing or dependence but rather about
the use of common motifs and ideas to deal with common concerns. The central
truth claims of Genesis 1 can be very different from the origins stories of the
surrounding cultures even if it uses, as we would expect it to, the language and
imagery of the day.

Genre as Reading Contract: Form and Content

Literary genre is communicated to the reader through form and content.
Consider "The Simpsons." First, we notice the form. It is a cartoon,
replete with exaggerated colour and character features. The Simpson family seems
to be suffering from a very serious kidney or liver problem, while Margís blue
haystack is beyond wonder. Second, the content. Ned Flanders can hardly be real,
can he? Is anyoneís life really this crazy and dysfunctional? Further, we have
seen other such cartoons and know that they are not "real." The form
and content together combine to inform us, as competent viewers, that this is
not to be taken as an accurate historical account. But does this mean that
"The Simpsons" is not true? Of course not. One of the reasons for its
on-going popularity is its caustic wit and perceptive social satire.

William Blakeís famous couplet, "Tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the
forests of the night," is another case in point. It is true? Not if one
reads it "literally" as a description of the propensity of feral cats
to ignite spontaneously during their nocturnal wanderings. And protesting with
increasingly agitated vigor "Blake says it, I believe it, and that settles
it" does not help much. What Blake actually says is a matter of genre, that
is, of form and content. We recognize the form: poetry. That means we need to be
alert to metaphor, image, and poetic license, whether simplification or
hyperbole. It would be folly, if not downright and culpable stupidity, to demand
technical precision from poetry. We also consider the content. Tigers do not in
our experience habitually explode whilst wandering in dark forests. These two
considerationsóform and contentóhelp us understand what it is that Blake is
trying to say. So is his description true? In one very real sense, yes. Ask
yourself, what gives a better understanding of the essence of tigerness: Blakeís
simple and stylized couplet or a fifty-five-volume DNA map of tiger genes?

Two important considerations emerge. First, in our scientific world it is
easy to forget that there are ways of telling the truth other than algebraic
formulae or Western-style history. Furthermore, some of the most important and
meaningful things in our lives are best shared using metaphor and poetic image.
Listen to the top 40 and see how often lyrics such as E=mc2 dominate
the charts. The same applies to the biblical text, large slabs of which are not
in plodding prose. Most of the prophets preferred poetry. This does not mean
that what they say is not true. But in order to make their message more
memorable and compelling, they use a genre best suited to that task. Now, I am
not attempting to stack the deck for a particular reading of Genesis 1. I am
only trying to establish the fact that some of us have a subconscious suspicion
of anything other than one particular kind of truth-telling genre to which
certain parts of our culture or our upbringing have accustomed us.

In my experience this immediately gives rise to a second question: but if we
read Genesis 1 like this, where will it all end? What is to prevent everything
solid from wilting into some kind of metaphorical jelly? The answer is again
genre. Take, for instance, Jesusí walking on the water. Bultmann, like
Schweitzer before him, regarded these stories as myths, largely on the grounds
that people do not do this kind of thing. And they are, in part, right. We have
never seen such things and we ought to be amazed and sceptical. But remember,
content is only half the story. There is also form. Although there is some
debate, it seems clear to me that the form of the gospels will not allow myth,
fairy tale, novel, or legend as viable genre options. At this point, form
overrides the content consideration. Whatever else the gospel writers were
trying to do, to the best of our present knowledge the form of their stories
indicates that they are convinced that these things really happened.

So with all this in view, what can we say about the genre and consequently
the truth claims of Genesis 1?

Genesis 1: Form and Content

Turning first to the form, even a cursory reading of Genesis 1 reveals a
great deal of repetition: "and God said" (vv. 3, 6, 9, 11, 14, 20, 24,
26, 28, 29), "let there be" (or some form thereof; vv. 3, 6, 9, 11,
14, 20, 24, 26), "and it was so" (vv. 3, 7, 9, 11, 15, 24, 30),
"and God made" (or similar action; vv. 4, 7, 12, 16, 21, 25, 27),
"and God saw that ëxí was good" (vv. 4, 10, 12, 18, 21, 25, 31),
some form of naming or blessing (vv. 5, 8, 10, 22, 28), "there was evening
and there was morning" (vv. 5, 8, 13, 19, 23, 31), and then a designation
of the day as first, second, etc. (vv. 5, 8, 13, 19, 23, 31; 2.2), with most of
these occurring seven times. Usually we associate this kind of repetition with
poetry. But we have examples of ancient Hebrew poetry (e.g., Exod 15; Num 23-24;
Deut 33; Judg 5), and Genesis 1 is clearly not the same thing. But equally, if
not more so, neither is this repetition characteristic of straight narrative, as
a quick glance at even Genesis 2 or 1 Samuel will reveal. That modern
translators and the vast majority of commentators recognize the poetic character
of Genesis 1 is indicated by the printed format used in nearly all modern
versions of the Bible.

There are other indications that this text is highly stylized. In ancient
writing it is not uncommon to find the opening sentences offering clues to the
structure of what followsósomething like their version of a table of contents.
Genesis 1:2 tells us that the earth was without structure (formless) and empty.
With this in mind, it has long been recognized that days 1-3 and 4-6 are
correlated with days 1 and 4, 2 and 5, and 3 and 6 concerning the same elements
of creation:

Day

Structuring

Filling

Day

3

water / land

land animals / humans

6

2

waters above (sky) / waters below

birds / fish

5

1

day / night

sun / moon and stars

4

Entirely in keeping with Genesis 1:2, we have two sets of three days: the
first concerning giving form to or structuring what was formless and the second
concerning filling the newly created but empty forms. Furthermore, in both sets
there is a progression from heaven to earth, with the preparation of the land
and the formation of humanity respectively as the climactic moment. This
progression is further highlighted by the nature of Yahwehís creative acts.
Days 1 and 4 have a single act, days 2 and 5 one creative act of two parts, and
finally days 3 and 6 consist of two creative acts. It seems to me that unless we
have a previous agenda this kind of detailed and highly stylized literary
patterning strongly cautions against taking this account too concretely. This is
not to say it is not true, only that its truth claims may not be of the kind
we associate with "literal" reading.

So much for formal indications. What about the content? The first thing we
note is the twenty-four hour periodóor, to be more precise, a working period
of twelve hours from morning to evening (the day ending with evening and the
following announcement of morning indicating the beginning of a new day). While
it is true that "day" (yom) can elsewhere mean a longer period
(e.g., Ps 90:4), it seems to me that the use of evening/morning terminology and
Yahwehís rest on the seventh day (in the light of the Sabbath commandment,
Exod 20:11; more on this below) makes it all but undeniable that twenty-four
hour periods are in view. We also note that there is no mention of any ending of
the seventh day. This is probably because the narrative has arrived at Yahwehís
rest in his completed creation, and there is no need to go further.

More to the point perhaps is the question: why did the various creative acts
of the six days take the same amount of time? One would have thought that
creating the sun, moon, and stars with all their mind-numbing extent throughout
our vast universe would require considerably more time than creating birds and
fish. And why would separating the waters above and below take as long as
creating all of the land-dwelling creatures? Even the notion of a firmament in
which the heavenly bodies are placed is hardly in keeping with what we now
understand. And why exactly twelve hours and not two or forty-seven and a
quarter? Why should it take God any time to do anything? Why should he work only
in daylight hours? Surely he does not need to rest at night, and the idea that
it was too dark for him to see is ludicrous. And what about the flightless land
birds and the amphibians which seem not to fit any of the categories? Then we
notice that Genesis 2:4-7 suggests that the creation of plants was delayed until
apparently the creation of humanity to work the fields. But in Genesis 1 plants
are created several days beforehand. It is hard to understand how three days
without tillage could be such a problem. None of this is intended to be taking
cheap shots. It is, however, intended to suggest something about the genre, and
thus about the kind of truth communicated in Genesis 1. When we ask questions
and get answers like these, our customary response is to recognize that whatever
the truth claims of the account might be, it is not what we normally call
"literal" history. Strangely, some readers of Genesis at this point
suddenly decide to ignore the genre contract between writer and reader which
they customarily and everywhere else observe. One cannot help but wonder if
there is some other agenda at work.

Based at this point solely on the text itself and applying the same standards
we use everywhere else for assessing genre, that is, to consider form and
content, it appears that Genesis 1 is not intended to be read
"literally," at least in the popular usage where it usually means
"concretely" or strictly and without the possibility of metaphor,
hyperbole, or symbol. This does not mean Genesis 1 is not true. It does,
however, mean that its truth claims are of a different nature.

Genesis 1 in Its Ancient Near Eastern
Environment

How then are we to approach our reading of Genesis 1? As in the reading of
any document, it helps to have some familiarity with comparable materials, in
this case other ancient creation stories. What we are after, in dealing with the
ancientsí view of origins, is some idea of the kinds of questions they asked
and how they answered them. Again, this is not to assume that Genesis 1 is
identical to, or of the same genre as, these other stories or has borrowed from
them. We are simply interested in trying to understand what issues a
second-millennium B.C. culture might have been interested in. I am, however,
assuming that they were not trying to do modern science nor attempting to show
that Darwin was wrongóhardly likely since neither was around at the time. It
is impossible here to carry out a thorough comparison of ancient creation
stories, but a cursory overview will be helpful in giving us a feel for the
kinds of concerns that the first audience of Genesis 1 might have brought to the
text.

(1) Sumerian ó We have very little from the Sumerians of the third
millennium B.C. They have no epic origins poem, and instead all we have are some
brief indications in introductions legitimating their social order. One story
describes a very early division between heaven and earth where Enlil, god of the
air, separates An and Ki (heaven and earth). Another begins with Nammu, a watery
goddess, who then becomes mother of heaven and earth and all the gods. As
increasing order emerges from an amorphous whole, humans, who had previously
been animals, become a special kind of creature.

(2) "Babylonian" ó Although often regarded as
"Babylonian," the Atrahasis and EnumaElish myths
are probably of more complex origins. Not only had Babylonian culture inherited
materials from the Sumerians, but it was also influenced by a
mid-third-millennium incursion of Semites and a late-third-millennium takeover
by the Amorites. Although most of our sources derive from the Assyrian or
Neo-Babylonian period, the traditions themselves are probably more ancient.

The Atrahasis myth, whose earlier form is found in the Sumerian
account of Enki and Ninmakh, was probably the standard Babylonian version
of the creation of humanity. At first the gods and humans were not
differentiated. The weaker gods, the Igigi, performed irrigation and
drainage, but growing tired, they threatened rebellion. Humans were then
created, by mixing clay with the blood of a god, to take over these tasks.

Our earliest records of the EnumaElish have been dated from
the 1300s, although they too are probably derived from earlier sources. More
recently this account has been regarded as a late and sectarian story concerned
with the localized elevation of Babylon and her god Marduk as both rose to
prominence around 1500 B.C. In any case, Tiamat, the seawater, and her husband,
Apsu, the fresh groundwaters, are the first to rise from primeval chaos, and
their intermingling engenders other generations of gods. Apsu, seeking rest in
his maturity, becomes agitated at the increasing activity and noise of the
younger deities and plots their extermination. He is thwarted, however, by Ea,
the god of the heavens, who casts a sleeping spell upon him, murders him, and
builds his palace upon Apsuís water-corpse. Ea and his wife, Damkina, have
their first son, the precocious Marduk, who is twice as strong, wise, and
glorious as any other god.

In time, the younger deities seek to avenge Apsuís murder, and Kingu, new
consort of Tiamat, is chosen as their leader. The other gods, terrified, choose
Marduk, son of the usurper Ea. As battle is joined, Kingu is cowed by Mardukís
magnificent appearance, but Tiamat with an accompanying host of serpent monsters
is undeterred. However, with the help of the mighty north wind that distends
Tiamatís watery body, Marduk shoots an arrow down her gullet. He celebrates
his victory by dividing her watery carcass in two, creating heaven and earth,
then the stars, plants, and other living things. After the battle, Kingu and his
host are reduced to servitude but soon complain that this role is not fit for
deities. Kingu is slain and his blood mixed with earth to create humans who are
now to perform forced labour for the gods. They are particularly to provide for
Marduk in his Temple at Babylon, which is then established. There is no mention
of humans being made in the image of the deities, although the reference to the
Lamga gods may imply some sense of humans reflecting divine statuary.

It should be noted, however, that this story is not primarily an explanation
of creation, but is rather an aetiology to elevate Marduk, the chief god of the
Babylonian pantheon, showing how he attained his supremacy in cosmological terms
and to explain why Babylon (with its Temple) is the chief city. Some fifty names
celebrate Marduk as the sustainer of life on earth and in heaven. His
glorification undergirds and legitimates both divine and human institutions of
governance, namely, the Temple and the kingship, which are the sine qua non
of great Babylonís existence.

(3) Egyptian ñ Surprisingly, although Israel had just spent 400
years in Egypt, relatively little attention has been given to Egyptian creation
accounts which one might otherwise expect to provide the dominant background
against which Genesis 1 was heard or read. And considering that Genesis is
traditionally described as one of the books of Moses, from a literary standpoint
it seems right to read it in the light of Israelís exodus. At the outset, it
should be noted that there is no unitary or common Egyptian creation story but
rather a range of variations depending on which deity is in view. Egyptians
apparently accepted a variety of myths and rejected none with the result that
the often meagre data derives from a range of diverse texts. Nevertheless, some
characteristic themes emerge.

Unlike the Mesopotamians who believed in a number of creator gods, the
Egyptians held only one deity responsible for their universeóreferred to as
"heaven and earth"ówhether in the New Kingdom or in Memphite
theology. The act of creation is described in various ways. In the Pyramid texts
(c. 2350-2176 B.C.) there is a sudden emergence of a primordial mound(s) or
hillock(s) (which the Pyramids symbolized) out of the watery void of Nun, upon
which Atum materialized in an act of self-creation. These became the sitesóthe
Holy Places of creationóupon which Temples were built. Atum then creates the
lesser gods, all of whom are personifications of various elements of the natural
world. In the Memphite texts (Old Kingdom, c. 2500-2200 B.C.) which polemicize
against Atum theology, Ptah not only creates all, he is also the primeval waters
that begat Atum.

In the little known stela of Ptah and Sekhmet we find the idea of creation
through lordly speech where Ptahís tongue commands what his mind thinksó"One
says in his mind (heart) ëLook, may they come into beingí"óno
preexistent material is used (cf. Ps 33:6). This idea of creation by fiat is
also found in a Coffin Text, where life is created "according to the word
of Nun in NuÖ" and Atum creates animal life through his command.
Similarly, Genesis 1 is thoroughly, even characteristically, permeated by the
idea of Yahweh speaking creation into being.

Creation emerges from the deep, the darkness, the formlessness and emptiness,
and the wind. The Coffin texts mention the Hermopolitan Ogdoad (also known as
the Octead, see below) who are eight primordial beingsófour pairs of cosmic
forces and their consorts with the four males being toads and the four females
snakesówho inhabited the primeval slime from which creation emerges. There is
some debate over their identification. On one view, Nun is a formless deep, Keku
is darkness, Amun is a breath, and Hehu (the least clear) is some kind of
illimitable chaos. On another reading, these eight consist of Nun and Naunet,
representing primordial matter and space, Kuk and Kauket, the idea of the
illimitable and the boundless, Huh and Hauhet, for darkness and obscurity, and
Amon and Amaunet, representing the hidden and concealed. In Memphite theology
these arise from Ptah, and out of them emerges the sun. Interestingly, the
biblical record begins with Elohim and then speaks of a formlessness and
emptiness, a deep, a darkness, and a hovering wind (Gen 1:1-2).

In terms of the order of creation, the god Re first creates light out of
darkness, and only after this the sun-god. This resembles Genesis 1 where Elohim
creates light before the creation of the sun. Separation is also a key idea with
Ptah separating earth and sky and Atum separating Geb (earth-god) from Nut
(sky-goddess). In the Hermopolitan story the primordial hill becomes the
firmament which divides the upper and lower waters. Given that the biblical idea
of the "firmament" has connotations of beaten metal, it is interesting
that another Egyptian tradition describes the resurrected king as taking
possession of the sky and then splitting or separating its metal.

In the Hymn to Khnum, we are told that the god "made plants in the
field, he dotted shores with flowers; he made fruit trees bear their
fruit," and this apparently precedes the creation of human beings. A
similar sequence is found in the Great Hymn to Amon, who puts the stars in his
path, and creates fish to live in the rivers and birds to live in the sky, while
Atum forms the Nile and calls it "the lord of fish and rich in birds."
One notes here the similar sequence of Genesis 1, beginning with the sun, moon,
stars, and then fish and birds, with the latter together in the one set and even
in the same order (Gen 1:20-21). The fashioning of the animals and humanity is
also linked in the Egyptian accounts, as it is in day six in Genesis 1:24-26.

Unlike the Babylonian traditions, the Egyptians grant a special role to
humans. According to the Great Hymn to Atum, the god "created mankind and
distinguished their nature and made their life." We also find the making of
man from clay with either Khnum being seen as a potter molding humanity on his
wheel (Great Hymn to Khnum) or Ptah molding humanity with his hands. In the
Instruction of Amenemope, "Man is clay and straw, and God is his
potter" and in a few texts there is even the idea that humanity is made in
the image of the god, as per the Instruction of King Merikare: "They are
his [Re] own images proceeding from his flesh." The Egyptian word used here
(snnw) is often written with a determinative in the shape of a statue.
This is similar to Genesis 1ís notion of humanity being made from the dust of
the earth in Elohimís image (tselem), a word which initially meant a
piece cut from an object and which would be entirely appropriate for a piece of
clay cut for a sculpture.

As far as I can ascertain there is no notion in Mesopotamian stories of
humanity being imparted breath by the gods. But in the Instruction of King
Merikareó"[A]nd he (Re) made the air to give life to their (men)
nostrils"óthe impartation of life occurs through the breath of the
creator-deity. On the other hand, the reason for the creation of humanity is
unclear, though it seems a possibility that it was to carry out the creator-godís
purposes.

Finally, the idea of the deity as craftsman is implied by the use of words
that describe the metal worker who hammers and casts, or the master potter who
molds, which would fit with the concept of a hammered firmament and with humans
being fashioned from the earth.

Comparisons between Genesis 1 and Ancient Near
Eastern Creation Myths

Some significant contours should be evident. For the ancients the very order
and coherence of the natural world implied some kind of personal agency. There
is not a hint of the idea that the ordered world emerged from chaos by purely
natural means. My point here is that no one wrote these texts to argue for the
existence of the gods. That much was simply assumed. On this basis, Genesis 1 is
unlikely to offer much succour for those who want to argue against Darwin. It
was never designed to do so. More probably it was designed to answer the
question: which god/s ordered and filled the heavens and the earth?

Whereas for moderns the process of creation is thoroughly materialistic with
the earth emerging merely as part of a larger solar system and life, if
discussed at all, being considered in only the most primitive form, for the
ancients the primary concern is with the earth as the setting for the appearance
of a fully formed human community and culture. In terms of the starting points,
the motifs of water/watery deep, wind/storm, and formlessness are common, and,
in the Egyptian Coffin Texts, one also finds the primeval darkness. Thus most
stories, including in part Genesis 1, begin with either an amorphous mass or
primeval chaos, out of which through increasing differentitation heaven and
earth are separated and ultimately a particularly social order emerges. Genesis
1 is unusual in that although it begins with the same basic elements it is more
universal and seems less interested in legitimating a specifically Israelite
social order, though in the larger context of the Torah one might perhaps be
expected to understand as much. Certainly Yahwehís lordship is assumed as the
fundamental datum of all existence. In contrast to modern origins stories which
utterly reject any psychologizing of what is seen as a purely
"objective" materialist account, ancient storiesówith the noteable
exception of Genesisósimply assumed a continuity between personified
"nature" and the appearance of humanity. If one might be permitted the
aside: it seems that the Genesis account manages to hold together the tension
between nature and personhood in ways that neither the ancients nor modern
materialism can.

The idea of warfare, though absent from Egyptian or Sumerian accounts, is
prominent in the "Babylonian" stories, and particularly in the defeat
of the chaos-storm-monster (cf. the allusions in Job 26:12; Ps 89:10; Isa.
51:9). Here cosmogony was essentially a conflict of wills from which one party
emerged victorious (so Ea/Apsu; Marduk/Tiamat; cf. Baal and Yam/Mot). Babylonian
stories also involved the use of magic on the part of the deities. In the
Egyptian stories, however, there is only one creator god who creates and this by
fiat through divine speech. But even so, their stories are still theogonic, that
is, concerned with the emergence of the gods as personifications of aspects of
nature. Apart from the single creator and creation by speech alone, none of
these features is found in Genesis 1.

In the Babylonian materials humans are created to undertake menial labour for
Babylonís gods who are now free to take their ease. The Egyptian sources by
way of contrast are unclear as to humanityís purpose. The notion of humans
bearing the deityís image is found only in Egypt and Genesis 1. In the latter,
all humanity, not just a single individual, act as Elohimís vice regents
superintending his creation. Apart from Genesis 1 there appears to be no concern
with duration or a literary framework wherein time is broken into a series of
consecutive days. Only in the Baal palace-building storyóand again there is
debate over whether this is a creation narrative (fn. 11)óis there mention of
a seven-day program to build Baalís palace-temple (cf. seven years for Solomonís
temple; 1 Kgs 6:37-38).

Before considering this temple connection further, it is worth recalling
Israelís exodus experience. They had just seen Yahweh, the god of the Fathers,
uncreate Egypt by overturning the rule of Pharaoh, son of Amon-re, with the ten
plagues that effectively dissolved the boundaries that gave the land of Egypt
its order and form. And then at the Reed Sea (Exod 14:19-31) they had witnessed
Yahweh cause light to shine in the darkness and a divine wind to drive back the
deep of the Yam Suph (a sea that the Egyptians also regarded as the being
at the edge of the world and the abode of Apophis the chaos serpent) and so to
reveal dry land.

Not only so, but Pharaohís crown carried a Urea, an enraged female cobra,
which functioned both as a symbol and the actual repository of Egyptís power.
Pharaohís "father," the sun-god Re, after traveling through the
heavens, would descend into the watery underworld of the dead, the sea of reeds.
Escorted by two fire-breathing cobras he would do battle with Apophis the chaos
serpent and emerge victorious each morning to bring life to Egypt. Like father
like son, Pharaoh was to bring order and justice to Egypt by restraining the
chaos of lawlessness. One can understand why Pharaoh, as Amon-Reís son,
thought he too could send his armies into the watery deep of the Yam Suph
and emerge victorious. But as with Mosesí first signóthe transformation of
his judicial staff and symbol of his authority into a serpent that swallows
those of Pharaohís magiciansóso too with the last, when Pharaohís Urea-led
armies are engulfed by the unrestrained sea, and that at Yahwehís command. It
is hardly surprising, then, that the sight of the Egyptiansí dead bodies on
the shore of the Yam Suph (cf. the Sea of Reeds and Pool of the Dead) had
a considerable impact on Israel (Exod 15). It is, therefore, probably not by
accident that one can hear echoes of light in the darkness, the wind over the
deep, and the appearance of dry land in Genesis 1: they had seen Yahweh do this
when he delivered them at the Yam Suph.

This considerable similarity with the Egyptian accounts raises a very
interesting question. It is sometimes suggested that the other ancient creation
stories are distorted echoes of the original creation story, namely Genesis 1.
This is always a possibility. But then one is left with a strange fact. How does
one explain that it happens to be Egyptian stories, the place where Israel has
just spent 400 years and which stories antedate considerably Israelís stay in
Egypt, whose scattered details on the whole bear a greater resemblence to
Genesis 1 than those, for example, of Mesopotamia? Might not a better
explanation be the exact opposite? Namely, that it was the details of the varied
Egyptian accounts that have influenced the language of Israelís creation story
precisely to make it all the more effective against the gods of Egypt? Might it
not be that Genesis 1 was written with a particular concern to declare that it
was Israelís god, Yahweh, and not Ptah, Atum, or any other of Egyptís failed
deities, who was alone responsible for the good and perfect order of creation?

It might also be that the clear literary art and architectonic patterning of
Genesis 1 is a deliberate artistic device intended to underline the good order
and patterning of Yahwehís creational activity. If so, what do we do with the
order of the parallel three days? It seems to me that they are designed to
reflect the same emergence of increasing orderóform and fullnessówe have
seen elsewhere in the ancient world and particularly Egypt, but now at Yahwehís
command. But why "three" days? I suggest it comes from the ancientsí
perception of the basic structures of their reality. The fundamental given of
human existence is the experience of night and day, no matter whether one is
above or below, or on sea or land. The next level of complexity is above and
below, and then finally, on the below, the division between land and sea. These
three days together delineate the fundamental structure of the ancient world as
the ancients experienced it. But the structure was not created to remain void or
empty, and so on the second set of three days Yahweh fills each of the realms
with, as it were, their rulers (cf. Gen 1:16) up through finally the appearance
of the image-bearer (Gen 1:26-27; see below).

To return to the temple motif noted earlier, a key feature in a number of the
stories is that the gods, having defeated the chaos monster, construct their
palace-temples. (In Hebrew "palace" and "temple" are
represented by the same word, which in certain circumstances is synonymous with
"house"óe.g., house of Yahwehóthe idea going back to the
Sumerians, where the word for temple is "big house"). As Arvid
Kapelrud has argued, when one has defeated oneís foes, be one human or divine,
and has established oneís realm, one builds a palace or temple.

Creation as Godís Palace-Temple

I want to pick up for a moment on the palace-temple image. If we ask how
ancient peoples might have conceptualized their world, the answer seems to be as
a palace-temple, such that creation becomes an act of palace-temple building.
Egyptian sources contain hints of this, with several traditions mentioning some
poles that lift the heaven over the earth and which are oriented toward the
cardinal points. This might also explain the Egyptian practice of building
Temples at various sites associated with the Holy Place/s of creation. At the
same time, the Egyptian cultic complex of the exodus period was a model of
cosmic origins, with its lake of reeds and stately temple.

In the "Babylonian" Enuma Elish, the outcome of Eaís
victory over the watery god Apsu is not creation but the building of a
palace-temple on the body of his foe. Likewise, after Mardukís defeat of
Tiamat he divides her corpse and stretches out one half like a roof to form the
heavens, apparently forming the earth from the remainder, though the text is
unclear at this point. Similarly in the Canaanite story of Baalís victory over
Yam, after Baal gains dominion, a house (temple) is constructed for him (as
already noted opinions are divided over whether this is an account of creation
but my interest here is the form of conceptualization). However, if Baalís
temple is a microcosm as it seems to be, then this act of temple-building could
perhaps correspond to creation such that creation, kingship, and temple-building
all belong together. Interestingly Baalís temple is created in seven days and
Yahwehís Jerusalem Temple, itself a microcosm, in seven years (1 Kgs 6:37-38).

The "creation as temple-palace" metaphor is hardly surprising if
one reflects for a moment on the realities of the ancient world. If the biggest
threat to a settled agricultural existence was chaos, usually through war,
lawlessness, or flood, then who was it that established order and security?
Naturally, it was the great king who defeated the enemy, who promulgated and
upheld the law (his word), and who supervised and orchestrated the building of
dykes, etc., to restrain the devastating floods. Having established his realm he
would then build his palace. If kings do this on a micro scale, then surely the
gods do it at a cosmic one. In fact, it is in recognition of this connection
that victorious kings, having entered into their rest, built temples for their
deities.

But is there any evidence of this notion in the Bible? The data is
overwhelming. In Psalm 104:2-3 we are told that Yahweh "wraps himself in
light as with a garment; he stretches out the heavens like a tent and lays the
beams of his upper chambers on their waters." Isaiah 24:18 declares that
" the windows of heaven are opened, and the foundations of the land
tremble." One notes especially Job 38:4ff:

But what kind of building is this? As Isaiah 66:1 makes clear, "Heaven
is my throne, and the earth is my footstool. Where is the house you will build
for me? Where will my resting place be?" Where does one find a throne and a
footstool if not in a palace, and what is the palace of Yahweh if not a temple?
And note too the image of resting in his house (= Temple) in the light of Yahwehís
resting in his completed abode on the seventh day of Genesis 1. In this sense,
the whole of creation is seen as Yahwehís palace-temple, and hence the reason
for his Jerusalem temple itself being a microcosm, a mini universe: it serves to
remind Israel that the whole world is Yahwehís. Granted, Genesis 1 does not
explicitly describe Yahweh as actually rolling up his sleeves and
"building"ówhy should it when a truly Lordly Yahweh would merely
have to give the word? But given the rather widespread Ancient Near Eastern
notion linking creation, defeat-of-chaos, and temple-building, and the
thorough-going architectural imagery which characterizes the biblical
conceptualizing of creation, it would be very odd if Genesis 1 were not to be
understood along the lines of cosmic palace-temple building. As the Great King,
Elohim naturally creates realms for the lesser rulers (cf. Gen 1:16) as he forms
his palace-temple out of the deep and gives order to and fills it. And as the
Great King, having ordered his realm, he now rules over all in
"Sabbath" rest (see Exod 20), sitting in the great pavilion of his
cosmos-palace-temple (cf. Ps 93).

This might also explain some elements of Johnís Revelation where he
describes the New Jerusalem as coming down out of the heavens to earth (Rev 21).
One striking feature is the absence of any Temple (Rev 21:22). The odd cube
shape of the city might explain this. The only other biblical objects in a
similar setting that are cube-shaped are the Holy of Holies in the Tabernacle
(10 cubits, probably) and Solomonís temple (20 cubits; 1 Kgs 6:20; 2 Chr 3:8;
cf. the Holy Place in Ezekielís temple, 500 cubits square, Ezek 42:16-20;
45:2). If so, then this suggests that the reason there is no temple in the New
Jerusalem is because the city itself has become, not just the Temple, but the
very Holy of Holies (cf. also Ezek 45:2-3). But what about the surprising size
of the city: 12,000 stadia (approximately 1,500 miles) along each axis? The
significance of these dimensions might lie in the observation that the size of
the city corresponds to that of the then-known Greek world, while the height
emphasizes the co-mingling of heaven and earth. In other words, the climax of
the new creation is not the abandonment of the earth, but instead the coming of
Yahweh himself to the earth to dwell among us. Here, then, is the climax of
Genesis 1ís six-fold affirmation of the goodness of creation with its
progression in both sets of days from heaven to earth. The final goal is not the
destruction of creation, but rather the unification of heaven and earth such
that the renewed earth itself now becomes Yahwehís very throne room.

Further support for this palace-temple conceptualization is found in the
final act of creation: the forming of humanity, male and female, in the image of
Elohim. Long the subject of debate, the image of God language makes a great deal
of sense within the palace-temple context. After all, what is the last thing
placed inside the deityís house, if not his image? So here in Genesis 1 on the
last creative day, Yahweh fashions his own image and places it in his
palace-temple. At the same time, as Shelleyís poem Ozymandias so
evocatively describes, ancient kings frequently placed images of themselves
throughout their realms as signs of their power and sovereign authority. It is
highly likely that in the biblical account humanity serves the same function.
Thus, both Israel (Exod 4:22) and her king (Ps 2:8) are called to be Godís son
in the sense of being faithful bearers of his image, that is, to reflect his
character and act as his vice-regents as they live in his palace-temple.

From this perspective, Genesis 1 is a "poetic" account in which
Yahweh, Israelís god, is proclaimed the builder of creation, his
palace-temple. It is he who by the fiat of his kingly command provided the
fundamental structures of ancient human experience and who filled these
sub-realms with their rulers, over all of which he has placed humanity, his
image-bearer, as his vice regent.

Conclusions

What might we conclude about the truth claims and significance of Genesis 1?
Given its genreóa highly stylized form and unrealistic contentóI would
suggest that it is not to be taken "literally" in the popular modern
Western sense as a blow-by-blow, chronologically accurate, account of creation.
No one in the ancient world, apart from the isolated account of the time taken
to build Baalís palace, seems particularly concerned with these kinds of
questions. Our chronos-fixated age measures things in nanoseconds and smalleróbut
not theirs. Rather, the pattern of days probably derives from the ancientsí
understanding of the structure of their worldóday/night, above/below, and
land/seaóthis being conceptualized in terms of the deityís construction of
his palace-temple as he gives it form and fills it. The fundamental issue is
that it is Yahweh, Israelís God, a God who cares for slaves, non-entities, and
even non-Israelites (cf. the mixed multitude who are also delivered from Pharaohís
genocidal proclivities; Exod 12:38), who brought order to the world, not the
failed deities of oppressive Egypt nor, to a lesser degree, those of Canaan or
Mesopotamia. And in doing so, it uses the language and imagery to which that
world, and particularly Egypt, was accustomed. This is hardly suprising.

On this reading the twenty-four hour periods, or more accurately dawn-to-dusk
days, probably reflect the notion of the customary daily periods of work. Yahweh
is the builder, and each day he speaks and thus by divine fiat builds or fills a
discrete part of his realm. Consequently, the injunction to keep Sabbath is less
intent on imitating six literal twenty-four-hour days of creation than it is a
summons for Israel to live out her creation storyóstructured as it is in the
nature of the case by six days with a seventh to restóand so to declare
herself to be Yahwehís "son," imitating him in continuing his
creation work of bringing order with the ultimate goal of Sabbath rest.

So in what sense is this true? If this kind of metaphor, symbol, or
antiquated way of seeing the world is all that is intended, how does it
translate into our modern world? In what sense can this be meaningful for us?
The answer is surprisingly modern. We recall that for the ancients the
fundamental concern of their stories was the emergence of humanity, society, and
culture. It was the same for Israel. Yahweh has designed this palace-temple,
this pavilion, to be the habitation of his image-bearer, namely, humanity. This,
it seems to me, is nothing other than the ancient version of the recently
formulated Anthropic Principle, which in its various forms reflects the fact
that the fundamental structures of this world, the observed values of its
cosmological and physical quantities, appear to have been fine-tuned with human
existence in view. To observers both then and now there are strong hints that
this creation was designed for us. And Genesis 1ís answer, it seems to me, is
not so much concerned with the "how" in the technical or mechanical
sense as it is with the "who," namely, Yahweh. It is Israelís God
who has created this world, and humanity will never truly know what it means to
be human until we learn to reflect his image. There is truth here, but it is
more like the pungent and memorable truth of Blakeís "Tiger, Tiger"
than the serried ranks of mathematically precise gene maps.

Two final observations. If this creation is Yahwehís palace-temple, then we
had best take good care of it. Far too many of us treat our homes far better
than we treat this creation. We would never tolerate toxic waste or unbridled
pollution in our living rooms, and yet we seem happy to do so when it comes to
Godís palace-temple. While some have mistakenly read the apocalyptic language
of purging fire as a carte blanche to do whatever they will to this present
earth, we might do well to remember the warning in Revelation 11:18: God will
destroy those who destroy his earth. Given that it is his palace-temple, and
that far from people going to heaven, heaven is coming here (at least if
Revelation 21 is to be believed), Godís anger against violators of the earth
is perfectly understandable. It is his palace-temple they are defiling, whereas
he is committed to renewing it.

Second, if humans are made in Godís image, then the repercussions are
serious indeed. In the ancient world, to deface the image of the king or deity
was tantamount to high treason. If one did not want to live in his realm or
under his kingship, that could be arranged, either by exile or death. If we take
the Genesis 1 account seriously, namely, that every human being is made in Godís
image, then we need to know that any act of abuse against another human being is
an act of high treason against the God whose image we bear and to whose kingship
and sovereignty we therefore inherently bear witness. With this in mind, it is
not hard to comprehend why Jews and Christians have historically put such a high
value on human life, whether women, slaves, gladiators, newly born, or even
unborn children.

It seems to me that this kind of reading of Genesis not only makes good sense
of the text within its cultural horizons, but puts the emphasis back where it
belongs. Perhaps it is time to stop warring, for example, over the length of the
days and instead to recall what Genesis 1 is more likely about. This world is
Godís temple-palace and he has not abandoned it. If we are truly to bear his
image, then neither should we. Not only so, but every human being is made in Godís
image. From this perspective, it makes a great deal of sense for Jesus as Godís
son among us not only to cleanse Israelís microcosmic temple, but also to
restore our imageóopening blind eyes, deaf ears, raising the dead, etc. Little
wonder Paul speaks of a new creation. With these truths firmly in mind and
heart, it would be difficult for Christians not to change the world.

Fisher, Loren R., "Creation at Ugarit and in the Old Testament," Vetus
Testamentum 15 (1965): 313-24.

Fletcher-Louis, Crispin, "The Temple Cosmology of P and Theological
Anthropology in the Wisdom of Jesus ben Sira," in Of Scribes and Sages:
Studies in Early Jewish Interpretation and Transmission of Scripture,
Studies in Scripture in Early Judaism and Christianity 8, ed. C.A. Evans
(Sheffield: Academic, 2001).